#my brain goes: nope

[thescarletnargacuga]

Scarlet? Are you there darling? Is everything okay? (I'm just a lil worried) \(ó﹏ò｡)

I'm not dead...I don't have an excuse. Nothing big is happening in my life. I've just lost the spark for a bit. I still have the drive every once in awhile, but I haven't been able to finish a story in weeks.

Best I can say is the hyperfixation wore off. Maybe it'll come back. I don't know.

Writing made me happy. I don't know why I stopped.

Thanks for checking in...I'm sorry to disappoint.

I'll keep trying. Something has to catch at some point.

[keferon]

Did you think I was done? Ahahahaha no, I have more.

Because chapter 70 of MOMU gave me the very dynamic between them that I missed so much, I just blacked out and started drawing uncontrollably lmao

Also. ALSO. I noticed a while ago that Prowl has the habit of..like…constantly frowning. So. I did a bit of research and made this graph.

In 70 chapters, Prowl frowns rougly 104 times. And the intensity of this gesture is very clearly correlated with the development of his relationship with Jazz, as you can see ahahahahah It might be wrong tho don’t take me seriously I’m not good with graphs

[cherchezlafatfemme]

Looking cute af in my psychiatrist's office today 💅

[atalana]

one of the most irritating and scary things about realising as an adult that you might have undiagnosed ocd is also realising that every bit of therapeutic/mental health advice you've ever gotten was actually making you worse

like oh i should analyse where my bad feelings are coming from and try to come to terms with what about this is bothering me? wayyyyy ahead of you!*

if that doesn't work i should accept that some problems can't be solved immediately and i should give myself the freedom to sit with my emotions? got that shit on LOCK**

(*compulsively interrogates my entire personhood every time something mildly negative happens to me because my emotions already feel out of my control and im convinced that if i just think through this problem enough i'll find a way to get them back under control, even if i've been thinking about this problem for literal decades and still haven't found a fix)

(**stews in bad emotion in perpetuity because i don't know how to solve it but i also can't stop obsessing enough to make it go away)

[chiliger]

*stands with hands on hips, staring at the floor* Look, I know we love to have the Command Batch be close brothers in art and fics. I am a staunch lover of the trope myself.

But what about, like in real life, where the people we grew up with or went to school with, they just fall out of contact. The friends made in high school don't always remain lifelong friends.

Yeah, they can say "we'll call each other and message everyday," or "we should hang out when our leaves overlap." But the war gets in the way of everything, like it tends to do. Slowly but surely the messages in the group chat peter out. There are too many things to do, and duty takes first priority over keeping contact with the people they knew as kids.

It's not for wont of trying, the commanders would still send little messages to each other, but it could be hours, days or weeks before there's a reply because of conflicting zones, lack of signal, or other messages pushing the chat further down the list.

There's also just the fact that the commanders find their people. Meaning, through time and shared experiences with their battalions, other clones click right into place, possibly even deeper than their batchmates. The camaraderie in surviving a massacre with only two of your men surviving is different than the experience of constant dehumanization on Coruscant.

It comes to a point where the Command Batch become, for lack of thinking of a better word, almost strangers to each other. They still keeps tabs on one another, just to make sure they're still alive, but that's pretty much as far as it goes now. Maybe they'll chitchat when their battalions work together, but the mission has to come first, so most of the talking is planning and strategizing. Even when their leaves do overlap, the thought of messaging for a meet-up might feel like a nuisance, because surely your batchmates are exhausted and don't want to be bothered.

So it goes, the commanders may have been close once, but that connection has been stretched and warped by war and time. They still have love for each other and it won't ever be forgotten, because how can anyone forget the people you grew up with. They were the right people they needed back then, but they're no longer the right people now.

[thesorrowoflizards]

SORRY this is so fucking funny. van is like oh, my crush likes another guy. that really fucking sucks because i kinda thought she liked me? god. and then she invites him over and tackles him onto her couch.

[stopmyhearts]

I would. Literally just like to look at my classes. To figure out how much I need to do each week. Brain. Please

[grape-jucie-dog]

OH DO YOU KNOW PJO

Only because one of my irl friends plays it 😭

Unfortunately I'm not on the "cool nerd" levels

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[the-mountain-flower]

When one has a brain like mine, one must learn the difference between discomfort and distress very quickly

Unfortunately, the dang brain in question doesn't seem to get the memo, and often turns discomfort into distress for seemingly no dang reason, and it makes life VERY DIFFICULT

[qqueenofhades]

So I saw you liked Medieval History (big understatement I know). Have you heard of Eleanor Janega? I've been going into deep history rabbit holes (my bachelor's is in history, so surprise surprise lol) and she's got some videos with History Hit on Youtube. She's a hoot, imo.

Aha, yes; I have heard of her. I do know that there are some mixed opinions on her in my Historian Nerd Friend Circle, but such always is the case with academia. I'm glad you've found her enjoyable!

I am reticent to admit that as a professional historian, I do not watch history YouTube videos, because the last time I said this, there were some people who got very mad at me. Nonetheless, they can certainly be useful tools/entertainment in the right circumstances, and provide an engaging introduction to the subject, so have fun!

[lunaetis]

[ me being mobile bound bc of work event staring at all the replies i wanna do but cannot. ]

[captainbasch]

i will never get over UkitakexShunsui so my subconscious brain made these two up the other night. The white haired man was like literally just a bleach captain knock off because he was the captain of some monster hunting troop? and it was like some epic end of the world kind of battle. Skrungly one showed up and White hair was like "Absolutely do not do the thing until we have no other choice." referring to an entity that is sealed away in mr.skrungly's body. It was like reverse Uki/Shun and i was like u v u <333 LOL anyway had to draw them because I can't seem to do anything other than draw heads and very slowly practice anatomy these days.

[leporidaecervinae]

wait so you're telling me that this story I started writing won't just finish itself??? I have to write it, put one word in front of the other and make sure it's coherent??? You're telling me I'm the only one who can write it because it's my unique voice and execution that makes the plot what it is??? You're telling me that I have to pay off what I've set up???

[wut-a-duckie]

crazy how one piece of constructive criticism can emotionally ruin me

[dirty-bear-rick-sanchez]

I would love to see an AU where Rick did his ‘Two Crows’ plotline with Balthromaw instead of all the creepy shit we got with Morty. We deserve Rick running away to pursue his homoerotic monsterfucker partners-in-crime dream.

Or even better, Rick using a dragon as a rebound after Birdperson rejected him for that extra Birdrick angst and to have the same vibe without having an adult character who made sexual advances towards Morty r.

If it did take place as an alternate ending to Claw and Hoarder (e.g. Rick and Balthromaw leaving together without having to have the whole ‘soul orgy’ shit happen), I think it could be interesting to explore Morty’s reaction in that case to compare it to his reaction in Forgetting Sarick Mortshall. There’s a lot of change in his character and experiences between early S4 and late S5 so it would be very interesting to see his reaction reflect/parallel that.